chavismo

Dinorah Figuera has a signature with limited value

“Venezuela cannot stand another communiqué” has become something of a political meme, but it captures the central problem with the process beginning on August 1. Washington has assembled a negotiation between an interim president whose continued rule it chose to preserve and an opposition counterpart it helped revive, hoping to combine Delcy Rodríguez’s control of the state with the residual democratic legitimacy of the 2015 National Assembly. The question is not merely whether they can reach an agreement. It is whether two actors whose authority is partial, externally enabled and detached from the country’s current popular leadership can legitimize a transition roadmap whose broad contours appear to have already been decided in Washington—and whether anything they sign can survive without María Corina Machado’s endorsement.

Everyone involved acknowledges that the mechanism was promoted by the United States. What nobody has explained clearly is what kind of mechanism it actually is. Is this a negotiation between two autonomous Venezuelan parties? Is it a broader national dialogue? Or is it an implementation process for a transition whose direction Donald Trump and Marco Rubio have already chosen?

The distinction matters because both sides are selling versions of the process that exaggerate their freedom to negotiate. The opposition presents it as the beginning of a democratic transition. Primero Justicia has listed substantial objectives: a new electoral authority and calendar, the restoration of political parties, an end to political disqualifications, the liberation of political prisoners, the dismantling of the repressive apparatus, freedom of expression and an independent Supreme Court.

Chavismo presents the same process as a necessary concession to preserve peace, obtain sanctions relief and protect the revolution. In its telling, sitting down with the opposition is not surrender but adaptation. “Dialogue does not mean capitulation,” Diosdado Cabello has insisted.

Neither story is entirely realistic.

The opposition may negotiate how political life is reopened and how future elections are organized. Still, it does not appear free to reopen Washington’s decision that stabilization and institutional reconstruction will precede an electoral transfer. Trump accepted Delcy’s continued presidency and has publicly argued that Venezuela is not yet prepared for another election, so the opposition is unlikely to be permitted to demand the immediate transfer of power it once said had already been decided by the 2024 presidential election.  

Delcy’s room for maneuver is also limited. She cannot seriously defend all the old red lines of chavismo: no foreign supervision, no negotiated reform of state institutions, no conditions on sanctions relief and no binding electoral horizon. The existence of an American-sponsored process involving the 2015 Assembly already violates much of the sovereignty theater through which the revolution previously justified itself.

Her real prohibitions are more practical. She cannot accept a settlement that fractures the military, dismantles the governing coalition, exposes its leadership without guarantees, or leaves chavismo incapable of competing in the order that follows. This is regime learning: not preserving the revolution exactly as it existed, but reducing the meaning of survival till it becomes achievable. If chavismo retains its organization, protects much of its elite and remains a viable electoral force, it can describe retreat as continuity.

The opposition is conducting a retreat of its own. It once insisted that the sovereignty expressed in 2024 had already resolved who should govern Venezuela. It is now negotiating the conditions under which Venezuelans may be allowed to decide that question again.

The two sides are not choosing freely between victory and defeat. They are negotiating the distance between two defeats and deciding which concessions each can successfully rename as victory.

Washington’s role goes well beyond providing the room and the refreshments. Delcy Rodríguez is interim president because the United States chose continuity under Maduro’s vice president over an immediate transfer of power to the leadership produced by the 2024 election. Venezuelan institutions administered the oath, but American recognition made that continuity politically viable.

Dinorah Figuera’s return to relevance followed an equally American route. She did not reemerge because a renewed domestic constituency demanded her leadership or because the forces behind the 2024 campaign selected her as their representative. One of her first consequential official appearances after years of political obscurity was a meeting with Michael Kozak at the State Department. She later returned to Venezuela at Washington’s invitation and became Jorge Rodríguez’s counterpart.

Washington helped produce both sides of the table. It accepted Delcy as the administrator of the interim order and activated Dinorah as the institutional representative needed to negotiate with it.

That does not make either woman a simple American puppet. Delcy controls the state machinery required to implement or sabotage any agreement. Dinorah can withhold the opposition stamp Washington needs to sell Trump’s latest South American peace project. But both operate inside a structure whose outer limits appear to have been drawn elsewhere.

The revival of the 2015 National Assembly is understandable. Delcy possesses effective authority but lacks democratic legitimacy. Her government can implement reforms and enforce agreements. What it cannot provide by itself is a convincing democratic chain of authorization.

The 2015 Assembly offers the missing signature. It remains, at least internationally, Venezuela’s last legitimately constituted national institution. Its participation can make institutional appointments, economic agreements and the broader reopening of the country look less like arrangements reached exclusively between Washington and the surviving chavista elite. That matters to governments, creditors and corporations seeking reassurance that future democratic authorities will not repudiate everything agreed during the interim.

But legal usefulness is not political legitimacy.

The Assembly elected in 2015 was a broad and plural legislature supported by millions of Venezuelans. The body negotiating today is a diminished delegated commission represented by only part of the coalition that originally composed it. Its leaders possess little independent national recognition, and the institution itself is deeply unpopular.

Its problem is not merely that it cannot enforce its decisions. For years, it often declined to act at all. It preserved itself as a constitutional necessity while withdrawing from political life, avoiding renewal and becoming increasingly detached from the society it claimed to represent. It remained alive enough to retain recognition and administer assets, but too frozen to lead.

It has now thawed itself back into relevance because Washington needs its pedigree.

Democratic legitimacy cannot simply be placed in constitutional cryogenic storage and reheated intact. The 2015 Assembly survived by refusing to die. It did not spend those years proving that it knew what to do next.

Primero Justicia has tried to bridge that gap by claiming that the delegated commission represents the sovereignty expressed in the 2024 election. But the commission was not elected in 2024, was not selected by the leadership of that campaign and does not represent the full coalition that supported it. The same communiqué reaffirms the leadership of María Corina Machado and Edmundo González while welcoming their willingness to observe a process they have publicly refused to buy into sight unseen.

The contradiction is striking. The people said to embody the country’s current democratic mandate are assigned the role of observers while an older institutional remnant claims to negotiate in their name.

Yet María Corina is not simply outside the process. She may be formally locked out of the negotiating room, but continues to have a relationship with both Trump and Rubio, based at least on her perceived importance. Dinorah has procedural access to the table. María Corina retains strategic access to the people who arranged it.

That may be intentional. Keeping Machado outside allows the delegated commission to absorb the least attractive compromises over sequencing, guarantees and appointments. It preserves her political capital for the moment when the settlement requires popular endorsement. If the process succeeds, she can validate its results without defending every concession. If it fails, she can truthfully say that she neither designed nor controlled it.

But Washington may be delusional if it believes Dinorah Figuera and Jorge Rodríguez can emerge from a closed room, announce an agreement and expect Venezuelan society to accept it without Machado’s endorsement. Their signatures may produce legal validity. Washington may provide international recognition. Foreign corporations may decide that the arrangement offers enough reassurance to begin investing.

Neither Dinorah nor Jorge can manufacture a national constituency.

The mechanism is an attempt to assemble a legitimacy that none of its participants possesses alone. Delcy supplies control of the state. The 2015 Assembly supplies constitutional pedigree. Washington supplies leverage and guarantees. María Corina supplies contemporary popular legitimacy. The problem is that the last component remains outside the formal process and has not promised to endorse whatever it produces.

August 1 does not need to resolve Venezuela’s political crisis. It does need to establish whether this mechanism can produce anything beyond the language of its communiqués. Its credibility will not come from another declaration of democratic intentions, but from evidence that someone can compel chavismo to share power with forces outside its orbit. The first test is not simply whether the parties promise another election. As chavismo reminds us at every opportunity, Venezuela has held plenty of those. The real test is whether the country can move credibly beyond replacing red chavismo with a poorly disguised blue version of the same political order.

The first meaningful agreement should not merely tell Venezuelans when they might vote. It should begin dismantling the police state we somehow cannot escape, even under American tutelage. Without the freedom to speak, organize, report and return without fear, another election would merely place a democratic label over the same machinery of control.

The organizers must also explain what they are asking the country to trust. If this is a negotiation, they should say what remains negotiable. If it is a dialogue, they should identify who participates and what authority the table possesses. If it is an implementation mechanism, Washington should disclose the roadmap being implemented. And if it is genuinely a transition, someone must eventually announce the date on which the interim order ends.

Venezuela cannot stand another communiqué because communiqués allow everyone to declare intentions without assuming ownership. Dinorah Figuera and Jorge Rodríguez may be able to sign an agreement. Washington may guarantee it. María Corina Machado may eventually persuade Venezuelans to give it a chance.

But only results can turn it into a transition.

Hope may be vigilant. Legitimacy is less patient.

This is one pic Telesur picked to try to make Delcy look competent. Draw your own conclusions.

On July 7th, Delcy Rodríguez presented her “Venezuela Reborn” (Venezuela Renace) plan to recover all buildings and areas hit by the earthquakes. The promise is not only rebuilding infrastructure but also offering economic assistance to those affected thanks to funds from the IMF and other multilateral organizations.

This happened just a week after her press conference on July 2nd, in which she faced multiple questions from foreign reporters about the government’s late and disorganized response to the disaster in La Guaira. Rodríguez denied those claims, blaming disinformation from “media labs” while defending the military.

The “media labs” argument was immediately taken up by State outlets and Interior Minister Diosdado Cabello on his weekly TV show Con El Mazo Dando, in which he insulted international correspondents who covered the disaster.

The saying “old habits die hard” can be applied here: the Rodrigato has been unable to avoid and hide the public backlash over its management of the earthquakes’ aftermath, which has been front and center of the reporting made by mainstream international media, like when a crew of Norway’s TV2 recorded La Guaira resident Damely Díaz, who lost both her daughter and her home, openly berating Nicolas Maduro Guerra.

Now, the regime is once again blaming the messenger, taking advantage of the actual problem of disinformation on social media to point at “political interests that want to take advantage of the humanitarian tragedy.” 

This comes as the official attempt to establish the narrative that Delcy Rodríguez is in full control has been undermined by self-imposed limitations. TalCual editor Víctor Amaya offered a glimpse: “Outside of fleeting visits to collapsed areas, (Delcy) Rodríguez has appeared almost always indoors, meeting rescue workers who she interrupts in their labor to thank them in from of the camera, decorating government officers, greeting Hernán Gil (a security guard rescued after eight days trapped in Catia La Mar) and more recently, in visits to stokepile centers and shelters. His brother Jorge became the de facto spokesperson for official figures of dead and wounded.”

The Great Mission Venezuela Renace actually merged three existing infrastructure-related government programs: Barrio Nuevo Barrio Tricolor, Juntos Todo es Posible and Venezuela Bella. It also shares its name with an online initiative launched back in May to register young Venezuelans with diverse skills to return and help out. The difference is that the word order changes.

Venezuela Renace doubles down on the “stateswoman” role Delcy tried to carve for herself in her public showings while adapting it to the current circumstances. 

It can be said to some extent that Venezuela Renace works as a reboot of the government’s communicational strategy, even if that’s not its main purpose. And taking in consideration what’s been seen so far, it couldn’t be more different from the previous one: Venezuela Vuela Libre.

While Venezuela Vuela Libre was like a trial balloon of what Delcy’s election campaign could look like in a hypothetical snap presidential election, Venezuela Renace doubles down on the “stateswoman” role that she has tried to carve for herself in her public showings while adapting it to the current circumstances. 

Unlike in Venezuela Vuela Libre, where Delcy’s image was absent, she’s front and center in Venezuela Renace, supervising works or in official meetings. Even their visuals differ drastically: Venezuela Vuela Libre’s iconography was mostly related to peace and faith, while its main logo showed color (with blue, not red, dominating the palette). 

Venezuela Renace is clearer on its communication goals than whatever Venezuela Vuela Libre was trying to achieve (before it was minimized and later unceremoniously dropped after June 24 for quite obvious reasons). But which audience is it going to appeal to? The Venezuelan people? International media? Maybe it targets the biggest supporter of the Rodrigato since January 3 and one of the most (if not the biggest) sources of assistance after the quakes: the Trump administration. No wonder, in their “media labs” response, State propaganda avoided mentioning Trump or the US, instead blaming María Corina Machado and Edmundo González Urrutia.

Most probably, Delcy Rodríguez only interested in convincing the Americans that her government is doing things right.

The first days after the earthquake were defined by what had been lost. Apartment blocks lay in ruins, entire neighborhoods disappeared beneath the rubble, hospitals overflowed, hundreds of thousands of Venezuelans found themselves without a home. Yet as the emergency slowly gave way to recovery, another realization has emerged, one less dramatic but perhaps more consequential. 

Venezuela did not only lose buildings: it is now discovering that it has very little left with which to rebuild them.

Reconstruction is often described as something that begins after disaster strikes. In reality, it begins years earlier, with the reserves a country accumulates while times are good. Wealth matters, but so do things that rarely appear in economic statistics: functioning institutions, domestic industries, engineering firms, construction companies, reliable electricity, access to credit, insurance markets, emergency planning, skilled workers and the public trust needed to mobilize them all. These are the hidden reserves that allow societies to absorb shocks. The earthquake revealed that Venezuela had spent much of them long before the ground began to shake.

That depletion has become evident in almost every aspect of the response. Venezuela imports a significant share of the food it consumes and much of its medicine. The emergency quickly exhausted whatever inventories existed. Heavy machinery needed to clear debris had to be sought abroad. Medical supplies became scarce almost immediately. Temporary shelters proved insufficient, forcing thousands of survivors to remain in tents erected in parks and public spaces weeks after the disaster. The government is now considering housing many of them in schools, an understandable emergency measure made possible only because classes are suspended for the summer.

Temporary solutions, however, have a habit of becoming permanent in Venezuela. Families displaced by the Vargas Tragedy of 1999 and by the 2010 floods spent years, in some cases decades, living in shelters that were never meant to become homes. The earthquakes risk repeating a familiar pattern, not because Venezuelan authorities necessarily want it to, but because they have long lacked the capacity to offer anything else.

The Venezuelan diaspora contains an extraordinary concentration of precisely the human capital required to rebuild the country. Whether that expertise can be persuaded to return, even temporarily, remains an unlikely scenario.

Some will inevitably attribute this lack of preparedness primarily to sanctions. It is an understandable argument, but one that struggles to explain what the earthquakes actually exposed. The collapse of domestic industry, the deterioration of public infrastructure, chronic underinvestment in the electrical grid, the shrinking of Venezuela’s manufacturing base and the erosion of emergency response capacity all began years before oil sanctions were imposed.

Recent research has also challenged the idea that sanctions caused a discrete collapse in access to food and medicine, showing instead that essential imports had already fallen dramatically before sanctions and later stabilized as the government dismantled some of its own economic controls. The sanctions era itself demonstrated that Venezuela retained the ability to import consumer goods. Supermarkets gradually refilled for those able to pay. Construction cranes returned to Caracas’ wealthiest neighborhoods. Restaurants multiplied. Consumption recovered far more quickly than productive capacity.

The earthquake exposed the difference.

The destruction of resilience

Disasters ask questions that ordinary economic life does not. They care little about how many imported products sit on supermarket shelves or how many luxury apartments are being built in eastern Caracas. They ask whether a country can mobilize excavators, engineers, trauma surgeons, logistics networks, emergency housing, electricity, financing and public institutions at scale. They ask whether resilience has been accumulated or consumed. Venezuela’s answer has been painfully clear.

That is perhaps one of the least understood legacies of chavismo. Much has been written about the destruction of wealth, the collapse of oil production or the country’s prolonged recession. Less attention has been paid to the destruction of resilience itself. For years, the Venezuelan State approached institutions with the same extractive logic that governed its relationship with oil. Productive assets became sources of immediate political or fiscal returns rather than investments to be maintained and strengthened. Private companies were expropriated rather than incorporated into development. Public enterprises became instruments of patronage rather than production. Infrastructure was consumed faster than it was repaired. The country did not merely become poorer. It gradually spent the reserves that societies rely upon when catastrophe arrives.

Resources that may have financed future growth must now finance immediate recovery.

The consequences extend far beyond physical infrastructure. Reconstruction is ultimately carried out by people, and Venezuela has spent the last two decades exporting many of those it now needs most. Engineers who now design highways in Spain, petroleum specialists managing fields in Texas or Guyana, architects working across Latin America, doctors practicing in Colombia and Chile, electricians, project managers and construction supervisors who left because opportunities disappeared at home. The Venezuelan diaspora contains an extraordinary concentration of precisely the human capital required to rebuild the country. Whether that expertise can be persuaded to return, even temporarily, remains an unlikely scenario.

Money presents an equally daunting challenge. Before the earthquake, Venezuela’s slow economic reopening had begun to attract cautious international interest. Much of it remained exactly that, cautious. Memoranda of understanding outnumbered signed investment agreements, access to financing remained limited and investors continued to price Venezuela’s political risks accordingly. The expectation, however tentative, was that new investment would increasingly flow toward rebuilding the electrical grid, expanding oil production and modernizing neglected infrastructure. The earthquake has fundamentally altered those priorities. Resources that may have financed future growth must now finance immediate recovery. Every home rebuilt is a home that cannot wait. Every hospital repaired is indispensable. Every bridge reconstructed delays another project that might otherwise have expanded productive capacity. Reconstruction does not replace development. It postpones it.

Reconstruction-era uncertainty and challenges

The financing challenge has also become more complicated politically. Investors had already approached Venezuela with understandable caution. The humanitarian emergency has increased the country’s fiscal needs precisely as political uncertainty has deepened. The constitutional arrangements established after Nicolás Maduro’s removal were always presented as exceptional. As they become more prolonged and their legal basis increasingly contested, companies considering long-term reconstruction projects must ask whether contracts signed today will remain secure under whatever government eventually succeeds the current one. Investors do not need constitutional certainty, they simply need enough legal certainty to believe that agreements lasting ten or twenty years will survive political change. Venezuela offers remarkably little of it.

This is also why Delcy Rodríguez’s recent call for the lifting of sanctions misunderstands the country’s central problem. Whatever benefits further sanctions relief might provide, it cannot eliminate the uncertainty surrounding Venezuela’s legal and political environment. Investors deciding whether to finance ports, housing developments or power plants are unlikely to base their decisions on sanctions alone. They also ask whether contracts will survive a change of government, whether courts will enforce them and whether today’s authorities will still possess the legal authority to honor them tomorrow.

Reconstruction depends on trust, functioning institutions, access to capital, legal certainty and a productive economy capable of sustaining the effort long after international solidarity inevitably fades.

There is another irony hidden beneath the rubble. The Venezuelan insurance industry will likely survive this catastrophe better than many expected, not because losses have been modest, but because so much of what was lost was never insured. This was an under-insured disaster. Homes, businesses and families that lacked coverage will inevitably look toward the state for assistance. Yet the state that spent years hollowing out its own fiscal and institutional capacity now finds itself acting as insurer of last resort, precisely when it possesses the fewest resources to fulfill that role.

Natural disasters often become moments of national renewal. Reconstruction can modernize infrastructure, attract investment and accelerate reforms that politics alone struggles to produce. Those opportunities exist in Venezuela as well. Rebuilding cities will require new housing, new roads, new power systems, new telecommunications infrastructure and new industries capable of supplying them. But opportunities are only as valuable as a country’s ability to seize them. Reconstruction depends on trust, functioning institutions, access to capital, legal certainty and a productive economy capable of sustaining the effort long after international solidarity inevitably fades.

The earthquake destroyed thousands of buildings. Rebuilding them will take years. What it ultimately revealed, however, is something far more difficult to reconstruct. Over the last quarter century Venezuela has steadily depleted much of the industrial, institutional, financial, human and political capital that countries quietly accumulate before disasters occur. Those invisible reserves are what determine whether recovery becomes a matter of years or generations. They cannot be imported as easily as food or medicine. They have to be rebuilt, patiently, one institution at a time.

We have seen several scenes of relatives of victims of the earthquakes telling soldiers they are not helping, or even forcing them and police officers to return or destroy the goods and money they were caught looting in the ruins. Rather than the return of freedom of speech with Maduro’s capture, what we have witnessed in La Guaira is the crisp, absolute ire of someone who already lost everything, someone who is living the ultimate experience of struggling to find the body of a loved one to bury them in a cemetery instead of smelling them decompose under the rubble of a building.  

But we hadn’t seen something like this: a woman who lost a daughter and a home walking through a security detail and screaming in the face of Nicolás Maduro Guerra, a local lawmaker and son of the imprisoned dictator.

For nearly six months, Delcy Rodríguez’s interim government has tried to project a different image: less ideological, more administrative; less revolutionary, more technocratic. The earthquakes became the first real test of whether that transformation ran deeper than economic policy. It didn’t. Faced with the country’s worst humanitarian disaster in decades, the Venezuelan state reverted almost instinctively to the habits it had spent 25 years learning.

The earthquake handed Delcy Rodríguez something politics rarely does: a chance, however limited, to soften public perceptions of her government. Nobody expected it to prevent the earthquake or even manage it flawlessly. The bar was much lower than that. Venezuelans expected a government that communicated at least somewhat honestly, remained visible, welcomed help wherever it came from, and, above all, stayed out of the way of those trying to help. Instead, many of its decisions seemed almost designed to produce the opposite effect, leaving an already angry public even angrier.

For the crucial first hours after the earthquake, Venezuelan civil society largely filled the vacuum left by the state. By the time the government moved to reclaim the space it had forfeited, the nature of its response had become clear. The emphasis was no longer on expanding the rescue effort, but on reasserting control over it. The government’s administrative response had been slow. Its political reflexes were anything but that.

Why?

The obvious explanation is incompetence. Of which there was certainly plenty. But incompetence alone cannot explain why a government whose political identity has been built on the appearance of public support repeatedly embraced decisions that seemed to generate even greater public anger. Something deeper appears to have been at work.

Responding to earthquakes requires a very particular kind of approach. Unlike ordinary governance, disaster response cannot be centralized for long. Every collapsed building becomes its own command center. Every neighborhood develops different priorities. Every rescue team faces different engineering challenges. Governments do not succeed because they directly coordinate thousands of decisions. They succeed because they remove obstacles that allow thousands of other people to make good decisions simultaneously.

As civil society increasingly assumed functions the state could not perform, it also threatened to accumulate visibility, legitimacy, and influence outside government control.

During normal times, governments can afford to centralize decisions and insist that major initiatives pass through official channels. Earthquakes punish those instincts. Rescue operations cannot wait for permission, and civil society and the private sector suddenly become indispensable partners in the state’s response. The democratic governments (like the one overseeing Venezuela’s “transition”) that perform best recognize this early, spending the first critical hours empowering society rather than attempting to direct every aspect of the response themselves. For twenty-five years, chavismo taught its institutions almost the opposite lessons.

The government could not lead the humanitarian response with the effectiveness the moment demanded. Society therefore began leading significant parts of it instead. Volunteers organized rescue brigades. Churches became shelters. Journalists became emergency information networks. Engineers inspected damaged buildings. Diaspora organizations coordinated donations. Foreign rescue teams rapidly became the public face of many rescue operations. None of this was unusual. This is how major disasters are managed around the world.

What was unusual was the kind of state confronting the disaster.

Every major political crisis reinforced the same institutional lesson: autonomous organization reduced the state’s control over society. Independent organization was rarely viewed as something to harness, but was something to supervise. NGOs are suspected of serving foreign interests, until proven innocent. Independent journalists and universities are seen as political adversaries. Neighborhood networks are just three doritos away from becoming opposition structures. Enemies abound in the schizophrenic chavista view of societal organization. Because for a chavista state that has banked its continuous survival on complete, centralized control, such a degree of civil organization represents an extinction level threat.

Those lessons make sense for a political system primarily concerned with its own survival. They become profoundly maladaptive during natural disasters. Thus, the humanitarian response itself gradually became part of the government’s problem. As civil society increasingly assumed functions the state could not perform, it also threatened to accumulate visibility, legitimacy, and influence outside government control. Administratively, this strengthened Venezuela’s response. Politically, it displaced the government from the center of its own national emergency. Most democratic governments would welcome that trade-off. 

What authoritarian systems find difficult to tolerate is not civilian participation itself, but civilian participation they neither direct nor control. The rescue volunteers were not political activists. The churches distributing food were not organizing protests. The programmers building databases of missing persons were not preparing electoral campaigns. Yet institutions do not respond only to intentions; they respond to patterns. For a security apparatus that had spent years dismantling decentralized civic networks, from the humanitarian aid operation of 2019 to the comanditos of 2024, the potential may have mattered more than the differences.

Search-and-rescue operations have become increasingly militarized, with rescue crews at the Tahití building reportedly prevented by the military from reaching survivors for hours.

Seen through that lens, what initially looked like a series of political blunders begins to look more like institutional habit. Faced with a humanitarian emergency it lacked the capacity to fully manage, the government fell back on the institutions it trusted most: those responsible for regulating information, supervising autonomous actors, and maintaining political control. Much of the administrative state had long ceased to be valued primarily for its capacity to govern, functioning instead as an instrument of patronage and political management, while the coercive apparatus remained the regime’s principal institutional investment.

Faced with the limitations of both its own incompetence and the state it had spent decades constructing, havismo has increasingly resorted to the tactics with which it is most familiar. Survivors who expressed their anger at the government’s lackluster response, such as Wilmer Cruz, have reportedly been arrested. Search-and-rescue operations have become increasingly militarized, with rescue crews at the Tahití building (Caraballeda, La Guaira) reportedly prevented by the military from reaching survivors for hours. Intelligence agencies such as the DGCIM have been deployed to intimidate the families of victims, while, as the Sky News Trump 100 podcast reported, authorities have obstructed reporting from Caracas.

For months, the debate surrounding Venezuela’s transition has centered on whether chavismo was truly changing or merely adapting. The earthquake suggests the answer is both. Markets can be liberalized. Diplomatic priorities can shift. Revolutionary rhetoric can soften. Institutional instincts are far more resistant to change because they are built over decades of incentives, routines, promotions, and crises.

The earthquake did not create those instincts. It merely forced the government into a situation where it could no longer avoid relying on them.

Every state becomes good at what it repeatedly practices. The chavista regime spent twenty-five years investing in political control rather than disaster response; in supervising society rather than empowering it; in preserving power rather than preparing for catastrophe. When the country’s greatest humanitarian emergency in decades arrived, society responded with the institutions it had built to save lives. The state responded with the institutions it had built to preserve power. The earthquake did not force the Venezuelan state to choose between control and effective governance. That choice had been made long before the ground began to shake.

Venezuela is far from being the only country in the Americas where State institutions have been used to crack down on independent media and protect the interests of ruling elites. In Guatemala, the case of journalist José Rubén Zamora became one of the clearest examples of how prosecutors, courts and political power can converge to silence investigative journalism.

In early April 2025, I interviewed Ramón Zamora, son of Guatemalan journalist and elPeriódico founder José Rubén Zamora. His arrest following years of investigations into alleged government corruption led to the newspaper’s closure and the persecution of people close to him. During our conversation, Ramón Zamora described how Guatemala has developed a tacit network of complicity between State institutions and political authorities, a system that raises broader questions about this new form of power in Latin America and may also help explain how the chavista State in Venezuela operates.

After elPeriódico published two investigations on May 2 and May 3, 2021 into apparent cases of corruption in the government of former President Alejandro Giammattei, the media outlet was subjected to legal persecution that culminated in the arrest of Rubén Zamora, who had dedicated his work to investigating corruption in the Central American country. 

The persecution began with an investigation into alleged bribery by the newspaper to obtain information related to the publications. The judge who heard the case dismissed it. Later, in 2022, an investigation into money laundering related to the sale of works of art owned by Zamora to cover elPeriódico‘s costs was reopened, leading to his arrest.

The imprisonment of Zamora caught the attention of the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights and the Office of the Special Rapporteur for Freedom of Expression. In their 2022 and 2023 annual reports, the IACHR requested information from Guatemala regarding the country’s human rights situation and recalled that Zamora has benefited from precautionary measures since 2003 due to risks linked to his journalistic work. Guatemala rejected parts of the assessment as lacking objectivity. Amnesty International described Zamora as a prisoner of conscience and condemned his detention. Zamora was granted house arrest for the second time on February 12, 2026.

Reducing chavismo to a simple narco-structure simplifies the scope that the organization can have, since apparent drug trafficking would not be the essence of the system but rather an activity within it.

During the arrest and initial detention of journalist José Rubén Zamora in 2022, Guatemala was governed by Alejandro Giammattei, a conservative president whose administration faced strong criticism from international organizations over corruption, institutional deterioration, and pressure against journalists and anti-corruption actors. Since January 14, 2024, Guatemala has been governed by Bernardo Arévalo, a progressive and anti-corruption reformist whose presidential term is scheduled to end in January 2028.

His son, Ramón Zamora, says that his father’s persecution is the result of an unwritten agreement between various powerful sectors within the State that aim to protect their interests.  “In Guatemala, there is something my father called the “Pact of the Corrupt.” The Pact of the Corrupts is a tacit agreement that forms a network of corruption spread across political parties and institutions, where those who reach positions of power must govern according to the pact.”

This explanation describes the composition of a de facto cross-cutting network, which has political parties, institutions, and security forces under its control, punishing dissent as a means of survival, subjecting its detractors to exile, imprisonment, and discredit.

“The judge presiding over the case ordered an investigation into my father’s defense attorneys and witnesses, causing his lawyer to go into exile just five days after his arrest. Currently, six of the twelve lawyers who have defended my father have been detained,” says Ramón, who is also outside Guatemala with his mother after the court issued an arrest warrant against both of them. 

“They also persecuted my family. My mother and I were outside Guatemala visiting the United States when the judge handling my father’s case issued an arrest warrant against us, so we decided not to return.”

But how can the Pact explain the nature of the chavista State?

Corruption as political capital

Chavismo is not exclusively a militarized organization or simply a drug trafficking operation. As in Guatemala with the Pact of the Corrupts, the institutions of the chavista State are co-opted and work in the tacit interest of their members, where one of the main means of maintaining the pact is loyalty based on impunity, while corruption operates as political capital.

Consequently, the exercise of power is not oriented toward citizens or the satisfaction of public demands, but rather toward preserving the internal balance of the Pact itself. Governing involves administering concessions, distributing power quotas, and avoiding any decision that could alter the network of interests that sustains the regime. Reforms, when they exist, do not constitute a project of institutional transformation but are carefully calibrated to avoid destabilizing the architecture of loyalties on which the system rests.

This model of governance, the pacted State, is complemented by a logic of repression, combining massive and indiscriminate terror against actors whose actions threaten the balance of the pact. Similar dynamics can be observed in regimes such as Russia, Belarus, Nicaragua, and several Central Asian States. Journalists, judges, political leaders, and internal and external dissidents are the main targets of a system of coercion designed not to mobilize the masses, but to send clear and disciplining signals to those who break the pact. The selectivity of repression does not mitigate its severity. On the contrary, it makes it more efficient and functional in sustaining the apparatus of power.

Reducing chavismo to a simple narco-structure simplifies the scope that the organization can have, since apparent drug trafficking would not be the essence of the system but rather an activity within it. The Venezuelan State has become a web of systematic corruption that makes crime a functional activity of power.

The stability of the system is due to a network of mostly informal agreements between civilian, military, and economic actors who share a common interest: preserving an order in which rupture is more costly than continuity.

In this context, ideology ceases to serve as the system’s organizing principle and takes on a strictly instrumental role. It is not the compass that guides the action of power, but rather an adaptable rhetorical resource used to justify decisions already made to sustain the pact. Chavismo does not act primarily to carry out an ideological project, but rather to preserve a balance of interests between civilian, military, and criminal elites, in which ideas can mutate without the system suffering. Ideology, thus, does not guide the organization: it accompanies it, decorates it, or excuses it, but does not determine it.

The thesis of a pacted State suggests that authoritarian stability rests not only on repression or ideology, but on a shared understanding among political, military, and economic elites that preserving the existing order is preferable to risking rupture. Such systems can appear remarkably resilient precisely because their survival depends less on ideological coherence than on the mutual guarantees exchanged within the ruling coalition.

The notion of a pacted State helps explain why chavismo has shown a capacity for survival that goes beyond personalistic or circumstantial explanations. The stability of the system is due to a network of mostly informal agreements between civilian, military, and economic actors who share a common interest: preserving an order in which rupture is more costly than continuity. As long as that calculation remains valid, the system does not collapse; it adapts, reconfigures itself, and absorbs pressures without altering its fundamental logic. Yet the resilience of pacted States is not immutable.

Such systems begin to weaken when influential actors within the ruling coalition conclude that the regime can no longer guarantee protection, resources, or political survival. Economic decline, succession disputes, international pressure, social unrest, or weakening coercive institutions can alter the cost-benefit calculations sustaining the pact. Similar dynamics were visible in Eastern Europe after November 1989, when regimes in the German Democratic Republic, Romania, and Bulgaria rapidly collapsed once the elite coalitions sustaining them began to fracture internally, a process that would also unfold in Albania.

History suggests that pacted States often project an image of permanence precisely until the internal understandings sustaining them begin, almost imperceptibly, to dissolve.

A few weeks ago, Argentine journalist Martín Caparrós recalled at an event commemorating the 50th anniversary of Spanish newspaper El País that Venezuela, in 1964, was the first place in the world to abolish the death penalty. These were the times of Marshal Juan Crisóstomo Falcón, and the word “federation” had become the epitome of the supposed solution to all the nation’s ills in a young, devastated, and empty republic.

Although this was true on paper, in practice we had Antonio Guzmán Blanco, trained in the federalist ranks and who became the supreme leader of the Liberal Cause, decreeing in 1872 the execution by firing squad of his former ally, the caudillo Matías Salazar. In less than a decade, this declaration of principles had been easily overturned by one of its promoters.

The self-proclaimed revolutions continued to undermine national life until Cipriano Castro and his crony Juan Vicente Gómez defeated them all and proclaimed the restoration of liberal principles. “New men, new ideals, new procedures,” declared the man who moved the presidential office from the Yellow House to Miraflores Palace. But, having consolidated his regime and enjoying his days for vanity and festive revelry, in 1907, amidst delirium and a display of brute force, he ordered the execution of his great opponent, General Antonio Paredes, once the Army frustrated a supposed new revolution.

After sending him to the firing squad, Castro did not remain in power for long. At the end of 1908, Gómez toppled him with a palace coup, justifying the murder of Paredes as the reason his former crony was never allowed to enter Venezuela again.

The Gómez regime (1908-1935) was cruel. It tortured and imprisoned its opponents. However, he was careful to avoid such incidents. He defeated them in prisons and in the military fray to maintain his sepulchral order. It wasn’t until the next military dictatorship in the 1950s that news emerged of what we might call summary executions of members of the Acción Democrática resistance and union leaders. Thus, Leonardo Ruiz Pineda, Antonio Pinto Salinas, and Luis Hurtado remained in the collective memory when neighborhoods were named after them. The tortures inflicted by the fearsome Seguridad Nacional or the days spent in the Guasina concentration camp became literature or anecdotes in a historical thread woven by this type of political violence.

Perhaps the great Venezuelan tragedy has not only been the repetition of violence, but the inability to fully transform its tragedies into republican memory.

Later, the great unifying word was Democracy. Under this system, the country had achieved greater pluralism, freedoms, and social development. That said, excesses were committed during the counterinsurgency campaign, and thus, among others, the names of Alberto Lovera and Jorge Rodríguez Sr. remained, cases that were openly denounced in the media and for which some form of justice was sought.

In the 1980s, we witnessed the extrajudicial killings known as the “false positives” of the El Amparo Massacre and the repressive chaos of El Caracazo, a moment when the system should have been more deeply confronted with its errors and adopted more profound forms of reparation. Although political violence did not disappear with democracy, it had ceased to be accepted as a natural aspect of public life. The problem was that many of its wounds were poorly healed, if at all, and festered into resentment.

The return of horror

The 1999 Constitution was born with the idea of ​​refounding the Republic and making it “Bolivarian.” Initially, this meant defeating corruption, building a “participatory democracy,” and erasing all traces of what they began to call the “Fourth Republic.” This refounding ultimately meant reusing and multiplying the evils of the past and waging a systematic battle against democratic resistance.

The cruelty quickly became apparent: the impunity and flippant treatment of the April 11 murders; the shootings in Plaza Altamira in December of that same year; the political assassination of the controversial prosecutor Danilo Anderson and the subsequent witch hunt; the exponential increase in repression in 2014, 2017 and 2019, and the widespread fear following July 28, 2024. This cruelty is replete with numerous new stories of deaths under the indifference or custody of the State, from Franklin Brito to Fernando Albán, Raúl Baduel, Rodolfo González “El Aviador”,  the extrajudicial executions, and the cases we still don’t know about.

The ordeal Carmen Navas endured to learn about her son, Víctor Hugo Quero, and the cruelty with which his death was concealed have shaken Venezuelan society, which sees mothers as its embodiment of grief and national outrage, and which finds in women its greatest source of peaceful resistance.

As an old folk song, collected by Aquiles Nazoa and sung by Simón Díaz in his second volume of Tonadas (1976): “Little girl who embroiders the white cloth, little girl who weaves on your loom, embroider for me the map of Venezuela and a little handkerchief to cry with.” Perhaps the great Venezuelan tragedy has not only been the repetition of violence, but the inability to fully transform its tragedies into republican memory.

Every time pain becomes merely an anecdote or a slogan, the country remains haunted by the same monsters and ghosts. But, just as we have had this tradition of assassination and political cruelty, which today are multiplied in family tragedy and shared horror, on each occasion Venezuelans have been deeply moved by injustice, and this has led us to mobilize to transform darkness into brighter moments for our republic. May the future be not only bright, but much more lasting.

Alex Saab was once presented by the Venezuelan state as a symbol of national sovereignty. Today, the same state refers to him simply as “the Colombian citizen Alex Naim Saab Morán.”

That contradiction is not a side detail in the Saab saga. It is the story.

For years, chavismo invested extraordinary political and symbolic capital into transforming Saab from a relatively obscure businessman into something much larger: diplomat, political prisoner, sanctions-era patriot, and eventually minister of commerce. When he was detained in Cape Verde in 2020 on U.S. money laundering charges, the Maduro government reacted as though a senior state official had been kidnapped by a hostile empire. State media launched nonstop campaigns demanding his release. Venezuelan diplomats lobbied internationally on his behalf. Officials presented copies of his Venezuelan passport in foreign courts. Delcy Rodríguez herself described him as an innocent Venezuelan diplomat persecuted by Washington.

The regime did not merely defend Saab. It fused his fate with the idea of Venezuelan sovereignty itself.

And yet today, after reports that Saab was quietly detained inside Venezuela for months before being surrendered to the United States, the same state apparatus appears eager to emphasize something entirely different: his Colombian nationality.

The legal logic is obvious enough. Venezuelan law generally prohibits the extradition of Venezuelan nationals. Saab’s status as a naturalized citizen may have provided the government with the legal flexibility needed to facilitate his transfer while preserving a veneer of constitutional procedure.

But politically, the reversal is extraordinary.

Until recently, Saab was not treated as a foreign intermediary operating on behalf of Venezuela. He was treated as Venezuela. Attacks on Saab were framed as attacks on the republic itself. His return from Cape Verde during the Biden-era prisoner exchange was celebrated as a geopolitical victory. In January, Delcy Rodríguez publicly thanked him for his “dedication and commitment to the homeland” while announcing he would assume “new responsibilities.”

Only months later, he became deportable.

The Saab affair exposes how late chavismo governed through mutable political realities rather than stable institutional principles.

What changed was not merely the regime’s opinion of Saab. The operative meaning of Saab himself changed according to political necessity. He was successively businessman, envoy, diplomat, patriot, minister, revolutionary symbol, and now effectively a legally manageable Colombian citizen. The categories surrounding him  (citizenship, sovereignty, legality, loyalty) were treated less as fixed institutional realities than as flexible political instruments.

This is what gives the entire saga its distinctly Orwellian quality.

The issue is not simply propaganda. All political systems engage in propaganda. The issue is the degree to which political reality itself became fluid. Yesterday’s indispensable patriot becomes today’s silent liability. Yesterday’s sovereign diplomat becomes today’s extraditable foreign national. The contradiction is not resolved so much as administratively absorbed.

For Venezuelans, this dynamic has become painfully familiar. Years of institutional improvisation, overlapping authorities, constitutional contortions, and contradictory official narratives have gradually normalized incoherence as a governing method. People learn not to ask whether political narratives are internally consistent, but whether they remain operationally useful.

The Saab saga condenses that evolution into a single character arc.

And yet this is not merely a story about narrative manipulation. It is also a story about how chavismo itself changed under the pressure of sanctions, isolation, and survival.

During the years of maximum international pressure, Saab’s networks reportedly became central to the regime’s economic adaptation. Food imports, opaque oil transactions, offshore procurement systems, sanctions workarounds, and parallel financial structures increasingly blurred the distinction between state policy and survival improvisation. Saab occupied a hybrid role inside that world: part businessman, part diplomat, part financial operator, part sovereign representative.

That ambiguity was not accidental. It reflected the logic of a state learning to survive siege conditions.

But survival systems often produce figures who become simultaneously indispensable and dangerous. The very people who help preserve a regime during periods of extreme pressure can later become liabilities once strategic priorities shift. As Venezuela moved from total isolation toward tentative normalization, figures associated with the sanctions-era architecture increasingly carried diplomatic, financial, and political costs.

The fall of Tareck El Aissami and the PDVSA crypto scandal had already hinted at this transition. Entire internal networks once tied to the regime’s survival mechanisms suddenly became objects of public investigation and selective purge. Saab’s extradition pushes that logic much further. Unlike the internal anti-corruption campaigns of previous years, this was not simply the revolution disciplining itself. It was the state externally relinquishing one of its own.

And perhaps that is why the Saab affair feels so psychologically significant inside chavismo itself.

For years, the movement functioned through implicit assumptions about loyalty and protection. Certain figures appeared untouchable because they embodied too much of the system’s operational history and symbolic legitimacy. Saab seemed to belong to that category. His sudden transformation from protected patriot to expendable liability suggests that the category itself may be disappearing.

That does not necessarily mean the regime is collapsing. Authoritarian systems can survive long after ideological coherence erodes. But it does suggest a deeper transformation underway: the gradual evolution of chavismo from revolutionary movement into survival-oriented governing apparatus.

Revolutionary systems rely on myths that are supposed to remain stable over time. Survival systems prioritize flexibility instead.

The Saab affair reveals what happens when that flexibility extends not only to policy, but to reality itself.

Photograph by Maxwell Briceño for Reuters, 2024.

Human beings invented States to protect themselves from catastrophe. You understand this in Lewis Mumford’s books on the first cities or in Jared Diamond’s on civilizational collapse: we went from nomadic tribal groups to organized societies of thousands of people because we learned to organize governments that, besides making some richer and more powerful than others, reduced the chances of dying from hunger, cold, disease, or enemy attack.

Until the mid-20th century, Venezuela did not have a State that significantly reduced the primitive precarity of its population, that defended it from catastrophe. As in so many other places on Earth, it was then that Venezuelans began to benefit from technology and institutions that saved them from dying of starvation or influenza. There had been previous efforts, from Páez’s first economic reconstruction programs and Guzmán Blanco’s compulsory education to Gómez’s road construction.

But it was with the López Contreras administration in 1936 that we began to see institutions functioning on a truly national scale, vaccination and literacy campaigns, a systematic effort to transform a dispersed, sparsely populated society with a very low life expectancy, where the vast majority of people were sick and malnourished, into a functional and productive one. During those decades, the governments of López Contreras, Medina Angarita, the 1945-1948 junta, Gallegos, and Pérez Jiménez took advantage of oil revenues to implement measures that benefited the people. With democracy, in 1958, came more public works and institutional innovations, such as the expansion of political rights.

With Chávez, the decadent welfare state we had not only ceased to protect society from catastrophe, but became the cause of the catastrophe. It was like teaching a loyal guard dog to kill the children in the house.

Until that promise of development for all was broken, inequality began to grow, vulnerability began to regain ground, and a frustrated and confused society chose Hugo Chávez as its answer, precisely in the year, 1998, that marked five centuries since the first contact with Spain. It had taken us half a millennium to have a State that provided health, education, justice, and order. That year, that history of progress halted, and the long road traveled began to unravel.

Reversal and investment

As Paula Vásquez Lezama described it, since the Vargas tragedy in 1999, when chavismo appropriated the bodies of the survivors, everything the State gave demanded in return helping that State grow and maintain itself. As Mirtha Rivero recounts in La oscuridad no llegó sola, chavismo used every crisis to seize control of the entire State. Once it had it in its hands, it turned it upside down. The State that should have served society now only had to serve power, against society. 

With Chávez, the decadent welfare state we had not only ceased to protect society from catastrophe, but became the cause of the catastrophe. It was like teaching a loyal guard dog to kill the children in the house.

Chavismo deepened all the vices of those previous governments to reverse the complicated history of our development and invert the role of the State. The long-standing culture of police and military violence expanded to turn the entire country into a checkpoint, where the armed forces behave like an army of occupation that treats all natives as enemies, on a scale that covers the entire territory, not just the slums riddled with bullets during the Caracazo. The perennial culture of corruption among civil servants was perfected to privatize the public administration, which does nothing unless its staff is paid personally, and to transform the bureaucracy into an industry for extracting wealth from citizens and the land, far more voracious than under any dictatorial or democratic government prior to 1999.

As long as this perpetrator State exists, we will not have any transition to democracy in Venezuela.

The elephantine State erected by Chávez had lost much of its muscle mass by 2020, but it remained, and remains, capable of subjugating a nation diminished by the miniaturization of its economy and mass migration. Maduro redesigned repression to maximize the yield of his limited resources. And so he reached the point where he discovered, especially after the 2024 electoral fraud, the efficiency of kidnapping a minor, because that means imprisoning an entire family and the community network to which the family turns to.

The method of subjugating society by harming entire families is evident in the Víctor Quero case. It wasn’t administrative chaos that prevented his family from knowing whether he was alive or dead, nor was it that the clerks couldn’t find the file with his name on it. It was terror, a set of practices that a regime, illegitimate and rejected by the majority of the population, implemented to minimize the chances of losing power. That State, which for decades attempted to be a welfare state, providing public goods to millions of citizens, now focuses on managing harm to those millions in order to provide private goods to the few thousand who control it.

Beyond the anger we feel over the story of Carmen Navas asking about her son from the cruel giant who killed him, the Víctor Quero case is causing such a stir because of how it exposes the way the Venezuelan State has become the very opposite of what it should be. Instead of saving people from misfortune, it inflicts misfortune to govern through fear. Instead of being accountable, it lies and sows confusion for months as a form of torture. Instead of being the state of law and justice promised by the Constitution that frames it, it is a criminal State where justice does not exist.

The great work of chavismo

This is the State that killed Víctor Quero and that forced an elderly woman, for more than nine months, to undertake the economic and logistical challenge of visiting courts and prisons, even outside Caracas, driven by the hope of seeing her son again before he died.

And this State is the main achievement of chavismo.

Previous governments, whose main task was to govern for better or for worse, left behind a legacy of buildings and institutions, from banks and State-owned enterprises to schools, museums, and universities, which were a mix of successes and failures. Chavismo will leave some buildings and infrastructure projects, far too few considering the revenue it received during almost three decades in power. But the main creation of chavismo is this gigantic state that serves only to subjugate society.

And as long as this perpetrator State exists, we will not have any transition to democracy in Venezuela. We will not be able to return to the path of democracy and development from which chavismo diverted us.